


Love It if We Made It

by 2amEuphoria



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brightwell, F/M, Gang Violence, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Multi, We love a good comfort role reversal on this website don't we? yes, death mention, drug mention, family trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:02:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22030738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2amEuphoria/pseuds/2amEuphoria
Summary: “He’s spent so much of his life explaining but not enough being told.”Malcolm comforts Dani after a hard day at work.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Dani Powell
Comments: 31
Kudos: 65





	Love It if We Made It

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be pretty heavy, unfortunately. Luckily it ends on a better note, but... Please mind the tags and warnings. Thank you.

He hears the sound of leather sliding across the kitchen island and realizes she’s home.

He had to miss work today. His aunt died, and he’d already missed the wake, and Jessica pestered Gil until he let her son to take a day off. So he had no idea what the team had gotten into. 

Her tears and shaky breath gave him a vague inkling, though.

He slowly rises from his chair, posture submissive and prepared, coming towards her like an injured bird that accidentally flew into their apartment.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice low, “what happened?”

Her gaze directs his to her gun, still in its holster, on the island. She looks at it like a venomous snake, a perp holding a bomb, a threat. 

But it’s her gun. Her safety in the face of a venomous snake, a perp holding a bomb, a threat. 

Why would she be scared of her own _gun?_

He starts profiling, deducing, hypotheses forming. He tells his brain to shut up. It’s not what she needs right now.

“Want me to put this in the safe?” he offers, pointing to the gun as he moves closer to her. She ducks her head, sniffling as a way of acknowledging his offer. He gingerly grabs the holster, holding it at arm’s length as he taps the numbers on the padlock to their safe by the fridge. For a second, he takes his eyes off her to put the gun away. And in that second, she speaks.

“I-I’m sorry. I thought you weren’t going to be home yet.”

He cautiously peers around the fridge to see her shrugging her jacket off, discarding it like contaminated evidence on a hook. She walks off-to the bathroom, to the couch, to their bed? He figures she doesn’t know where she’s going either.

Again, the thoughts are working their way through his brain, puzzle pieces beginning to fit, ideas for answers shifting into place. He wants so badly to blurt out his “why,” but he can’t. Because regardless of whether or not he’s right, it’s _his_ “why,” not hers.

“Why don’t you take a shower?” he blurts out instead. “Or a bath. Whichever. Just… Go in there, cry it out, and I’ll be waiting whenever you’re done.”

She’s halfway under the covers when he says this. She looks at him, bewildered, re-considering her way of dealing with it versus his. He’s about to say “just a suggestion” before she accepts his idea, tossing the sheets away and pacing over to the bathroom. She wipes her eyes once more and disappears behind the door, and that’s the last he sees of her for an hour.

He hears her though, during that length of time. Hears every sob, whimper, cough, and audible breath from his post outside the bathroom door. 

She doesn’t know, but he’s outside the door crying with her, low and soft so she doesn’t hear, doesn’t feel guilty for dragging him under with her. He doesn’t understand the cause of her pain, but he knows pain well. Knows how it festers and feeds on the mind and body like a cancer, how it paralyzes the soul. 

He knows it well.

_____________

His tears have almost put him to sleep before she flings open the bathroom door. He feels so small, slumped against the wall while she stands over him in a towel. He feels so small against her suffering.

She pauses at the sight of him there, and for a second he thinks she’ll give him an answer. She gives him a diversion instead: “I forgot clean clothes.” He isn’t sure if she heard his “okay” and to be honest, he’s not sure if he even heard himself say it, either.

She snags a change of clothes from the dresser and fresh underwear from her nightstand. One of the bra straps gets caught on the knob, though, and a cry of frustration escapes her. He’s almost at her side before she frees the strap and brushes past him back to the bathroom, sighing through a fresh wave of tears that come over her. 

He can only sit on the bed and wait for her to return. He hears her begin to sob again, but within five minutes Dani’s brought herself under control once more. He listens as her breaths change from ragged and painful to slower and deeper as she tries to steady herself. 

His chest falls. He knows she’s reached the hardest part: the phase where you try desperately not to cry anymore-even though you want to-because you’ve spent too much time doing so already. 

Ten minutes later, the bathroom fan shuts off. Malcolm’s heartbeat quickens. 

Dani comes out, and while he can tell she’s a little bit further from where she was when she came home, she’s not quite out of the thick of it yet. They briefly make eye contact before she walks over to the couch. He hears a trembling exhale as she sinks into the leather.

His mind is screaming with possibilities and theories as he comes over to her and it takes everything within him not to propose them to her, not to throw his beliefs at her until something sticks. He knows that she knows him, knows that his brain’s already working overtime, and she probably believes that he’s only coming over to present his findings to her.

He confirms that theory because after a moment of him sitting next to her, she sniffs loudly and grumbles “what?” at him.

“Nothing. I just want you to know I’m here.”

She falls apart at that, but doesn’t fall into him, folding into herself instead. After a few moments he decides to reach out to her, rubbing her shoulder before tracing his hand over to her back. His nails etch small, slow circles over her shoulder blades, and _that_ somehow causes her to snap. She lets out a sound of anguish he hopes he’ll never hear again and throws herself onto him, burying her face against his chest.

He’s out of practice with comforting others, let alone his girlfriend of three months. He knows how _he_ prefers to be comforted-with facts, with logic-but he knows she’ll shut down if he tries that on her. She’s taught him a lot about waiting, about letting the other person “come to you,” and about turning his “profiler brain” off. 

He’s been quizzed on these skills in their everyday life, but today is a test.

It's a big test, too; that he hopes he can pass without slipping up, he thinks as he can hear her sobs slowing down. She’s finally cried herself out, or he hopes she has at least, as the vice grip she had on his shirt loosens and her head drifts down towards the throw pillow he’s seated next to. His hands help guide her to a comfortable position, and once she's situated he begins caressing her arms and brushing stray, tear-stained curls away from her face.

Again, his mind’s buzzing with ideas, with questions he wants to ask her. But when her eyes finally close and her breathing becomes tidal instead of panicked, he realizes he made the right choice ignoring his temptations.

He keeps time until he’s certain she’s out before scooping her up and carrying her to their bed. She’s normally a light sleeper, like he is, but he knows first-hand how meltdowns have a way of inducing a deeper kind of rest. He wraps blankets around her to help guard her dreams before resuming his post at her side. 

His mind is still flooded with possibilities. He lets out an exasperated sigh.

_____________

Gil calls two hours later, his voice taut. 

“Dani got home, right? She okay?”

Malcolm threads a few loose strands of hair behind his ear, realizing everyone else on the team must know what happened but him. “Yeah, she got in around 2. Pretty upset, but she’s sleeping now.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line before Gil responds. “Tell her I want her to take the day off tomorrow. That’s an order. If you have to do the same, just so she doesn’t go crazy… Do so. Is that clear?”

“Understood. I’ll see you when I see you, Gil.”

The second he ends the call he curses under his breath, realizing that he could’ve gone to a different part of the apartment to ask Gil what happened in private. He turns around to see Dani’s red, swollen eyes peering back at him from a few feet away, and accepts he has to find out a different way instead.

“Sweetheart, that was Gil.” He puts his phone on the kitchen island and starts towards her, searching her eyes for signs of another storm. “He seemed pretty worried about you.”

Her gaze shifts to the floor. His posture bows a little, bent over to try and gain eye contact with her again. She then looks at the wall.

He combs back his hair with his left hand and while throwing his right in the air. “Dani, I’m sorry. I’m trying here,” he lets out an awkward laugh. “I’m trying something new. Trying to be less of a profiler for once. Clearly not my forte.” 

He’s at her side of the bed now, getting down on his knees and on her eye level. She still won’t look at him. He thinks back to the time where they shared Earl Grey in the conference room, when he started to profile her and she seemed frustrated with his deductions. Her words from that time, “you could just… ask,” ring through his mind.

He’s spent so much of his life explaining, but not enough being told.

“My point is, I’m here. Whatever it is, whatever you want, I’m ready, I’m here. And I have _millions_ of ideas of what _I_ think is upsetting you, but… I think it’s probably better if you just tell me.” One of her hands is dangling off the bed, so he takes it in his, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “So please? Can you tell me?”

He asks and immediately, thankfully, receives. Her eyes, bloodshot and fatigued, return to him at last. The hand he held in his own lifts to begin pulling through his hair. And, unexpectedly, she offers him a slight smile. 

“Thank you,” she says quietly. 

She pulls back the covers and shifts back, inviting him in with her. For a second he almost says “why don’t I just get in on my side?” but he doesn’t want her to regress. If she’s letting him in, physically or otherwise, he knows it’s best to accept it, and on her terms too. He slides in next to her and she lays her head on the arm he uses to prop himself up. That arm will be asleep in 10 minutes, but he doesn’t mind.

He takes a deep breath in, then out. She follows. And then she clears her throat to speak.

_____________

“We got called around 11 this morning,” she begins. “Someone reported a body in a warehouse.” Malcolm raises an eyebrow, and she nods, acknowledging him. “Suspicious, right? We knew the caller was likely involved somehow. So we came in ready…” her voice trails off, and she swallows hard. “Ready to take action if we had to. And then I saw her.”

She clears her throat again, and he can see a sheen of tears start to glaze over her eyes. “She was so young. Nineteen. Her name was Jasmine. At first I thought she was just knocked unconscious from a fall or something, because her curls covered the bullet wound through her head. I almost picked her up… I’m glad I didn’t. That would’ve fucked me up so much worse…” She lets out a quick sob. Malcolm squeezes her hand.

“Anyways, I think I must’ve startled him when I ran over to her. I think he thought I saw him or something, because he came out from behind a shipping box and bolted off. And…”

She gulps. Malcolm begins rubbing small, quick circles into her back again, and another sob escapes her. “My… My grandmother used to do that when I was upset." She gestures with a nod of her head to his back rubbing pattern. "Sorry I kind of lost it on you when you did that earlier, I… I didn’t mean to.”

“Don’t apologize,” he murmurs. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” she pleads, hesitating for a second at how quickly she responds. “No, please. It’s helpful.”

She wipes her eyes, lets out a long exhale and continues.

“He bolted and he scared me. So I raised my gun at him.” Malcolm knows his face falls and that she saw it, because her face changes too. “I didn’t shoot him… But Malcolm, he was young too, like she was, _and I almost did…”_

She comes undone, this time choosing to hide against the sheets instead of his chest to cry. He pulls her closer, laying kisses against her hairline and trying to soothe her. 

“Sshh. Dani, you didn’t kill him,” he promises her. “You didn’t shoot him, you didn’t kill him. You got scared. That’s all. I would’ve gotten scared, JT or Gil would’ve, _anyone_ would’ve..." 

“But you _didn’t_ hurt him,” he reiterates, reassuring her. “You’re home now, you’re safe, and you didn’t hurt him.” 

His words don’t work, though. And that’s when he realizes it.

“Dani… It isn’t just the fact that you almost shot him, is it?” He places a hand under her chin and tilts her face up to look at him. His heart shatters at the way she sniffs and shakes her head.

“No. It’s my sister.” His eyes widen in horror and she clarifies quickly: “no, that girl wasn’t my sister. Jasmine looked a lot like her, though.”

She props herself up a bit, her breathing still heavy as she tries to pull herself together to tell yet _another_ story. He waits, patient, blocking out the stories his mind is coming up with.

“You know I don’t talk about her much. There’s a reason why.” She picks at the split ends on a strand of curls, and he knows she’s trying to distract herself. “She was a little younger than me. She was a brat… But I loved her. God, I loved her.”

“What was her name?” he asks, hoping it’ll help rather than hurt her.

“Samantha,” she replies. “Sammie.”

He smiles a bit at the nickname. Dani does too.

“Sammie was always the baby,” she went on, “always needed to be cared for by someone. My mom happily did so until she died. And then my dad tried, my grandmother tried, my brother attempted… but the only person she wanted was me. So she became my responsibility. I was 8,” Dani looks down at the bedspread. “That’s too young for anyone to lose their parent. Or become the substitute parent for someone else.”

“When we were teens, Sammie dealt with growing up by being wild. She snuck out, she went to parties… Jason was a little older than both of us and he never went and picked her up. That ended up being me. Saving her ass for the umpteenth time.” She rolled her tear-filled eyes. “God, she was a monster. I swear she tried UV Blue before I did.” They both laughed.

“When I joined the force, she started hanging around with the wrong people. Gangs mostly. I swear she did it to spite me for having a career that took away time I could spend with her.” Dani shakes her head and sighs. “And then she started using whatever the people she was around had on them. When I got assigned to go undercover in Narcotics, believe me, I was both thrilled and terrified at the idea of catching her and smacking the shit out of her for what she was doing. The middle child in me wanted to turn her in, make her pay for all the stress she put us through.”

“And then,” she says, her voice breaking, “it finally happened. I caught her. Only she was dead. On the ground in an alleyway. She’d been shot in the head. The guy who did it ran out behind a dumpster. I didn’t shoot him; I couldn’t. I was shaking so bad…”

“The brass wanted me to go home that night, relax, but I couldn’t. I went back to Desir and his crew. And, as if Sam possessed me or something, I started using that night.”

Her voice becomes thicker with tears, and Malcolm can feel his own throat becoming heavier as he listens. “A few days later my grandmother called me, begging me to come to her funeral. I didn’t. That was the night I overdosed.”

“Dani…” he can’t think of what else to say. “Sorry” wouldn’t cut it.

“When I saw Jasmine, I saw Sammie. And when I first saw that kid… I realized I wasn’t shaking. And that I could shoot this time...” He traces deeper circles into her back to try and counteract the way she struggles to breathe normally.

“But I didn’t. I didn’t, Malcolm, I swear.”

“I believe you. It’s okay, I believe you.”

He sits up and pulls her into his lap. She lays against him like a small child. Within minutes she’s no longer sobbing, just letting the occasional tear fall down her cheek, and he thinks she might fall asleep again. She does, but only for about an hour or so.

_____________

“Thank you…” she says after a while, surprising him by being awake, “for letting me tell you that. Only you and Gil know. I’m sure JT’s pieced it together, but I don’t want to have a third person seeing me cry.”

He smiles, kissing her forehead. “You know it’s okay to cry in front of people though, right? You don’t have to hold all of this in. The sooner you let it out, the sooner you can feel better.”

She huffs. “Sounds fake, but okay.” They both chuckle at her stubbornness shining through again.

“I’m just a cold person, Malcolm, you know this. Cold hands, cold heart. I don’t do emotions like you do.”

Malcolm stifles a much louder laugh. “The ‘cold heart’ I’d have to disagree with. The hands-”

“-You mean these?” She shoves both hands under his shirt and up his stomach until he yelps. Giggling, she playfully climbs on top of him, pushing him down on the bed and crushing his lips with hers. When she pulls away her eyes are shining, and he feels a world of misery being lifted off of both of them. She’s _Dani_ again. 

“Come on, tough guy,” she teases, hopping off the bed. “Wanna go up to the roof for a bit?”

_____________

They always did this whenever the weather was nice. They’d go up to the roof and either sit in lawn chairs or stand by the ledge and look out at the neighborhood around them. She’d play her music for a change, since it had more of a “rooftop vibe,” as he put it. 

Today would’ve been a perfect day to stand and survey the neighborhood, but she was still tired from the day’s events, and wanted nothing more than to sit in her chair next to his with her head on his shoulder and their fingers intertwined.

“Gil wanted you to take the day off tomorrow, you know,” Malcolm pipes up as the summer breeze catches their hair. “Said I could too. I think you definitely should though, in honor of Sammie.”

“Only if you do too. I won’t stop thinking about it if you go in and I have to stay home all day.”

“Deal.”

“I can take you to where she’s buried,” Dani offers, fidgeting with her rings. “ If you’re okay with it, I mean. I feel bad; I haven’t visited in a while.”

“Of course,” he replies, brushing his lips against her temple. “We can bring flowers.”

She nods into his t-shirt, almost dozing off before she realizes what song is playing. She pulls back to look at him, and he stares back at her, confused and waiting for the lyrics to start.

Once he gets past the initial shock of the song opening with _“we’re fucking in a car/shooting heroin”_ and she’s finished laughing at him, he asks her what the hell they’re listening to.

“It’s kind of a sad song, honestly,” she says as she plays with his hair. “It mentions a lot of horrible things that are going on with the world. But it’s also kind of hopeful, in a way? Mentioning everything that’s wrong but with some hope for things to get better someday.”

“And who’s it by? You’ve played them before.”

“The 1975.”

“Ah, that was a great year.” He snorts as she makes a face at him.

“Oh my God, _enough_ with the dad jokes.” She playfully slaps his shoulder as he laughs harder. “I can’t with you.”

He regains composure. “So, it’s The 1975, and it’s about everything wrong with the world but with hope that something will go right. And what’s it called?”

_“‘Love It if We Made It.’”_

“Hmm,” he reflects on the title for a moment before leaning over to kiss her. “I’d love it, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Almost exactly a week after my grandfather passed away last year, I went out to visit my college best friend and stay at her apartment for a few days. On the day I arrived, she took me out at sunset for a drive, and played “Love It if We Made It” for me to listen to for the first time. “This song’s depressing,” she told me, “but it’s also hopeful for things to get better in the world.” I told her that song was exactly what I needed to hear, because it was exactly how I was feeling. Thank you, K, for reminding me of silver linings when I saw nothing but clouds.
> 
> “Soundtrack” for this fanfiction:
> 
> Love It if We Made It- The 1975
> 
> Stubborn Love- The Lumineers
> 
> Paint- The Paper Kites
> 
> St. Clarity- The Paper Kites (I adore this song in general and will reference it multiple times in fic b/c it's got Brightwell written all over it.)


End file.
